Author: Vida

Hey you guys! I’ve been gone for like, two years. I would have written, but nothing happened that was interesting. This is a lie. I have two teenagers now and I have been in witness protection and I just decided to break the rules and write something. This is also a lie. The government refuses to address the clear necessity for parents of teens to enter witness protection. I would usually take issue with this, but there are clearly more pressing matters at hand with the federal government these days.

But enough serious stuff. I wanted to perform a public service today. I wanted to tell you, the people, about a very important issue. i want to spread the word about the dangers of wasabi. Or, more specifically, about what happens when you accidentally snort wasabi.

“Snort wasabi?!?!” , you laugh. Yes, snort wasabi. It was in my fridge and since my fridge is no man’s land, I wasn’t sure what it was, so I sniffed it. (I was going to include a link about my housekeeping skills or lack thereof, but you know what? Read my past blog posts. You’ll see. You’ll all see.) A hard sniff. By the way, I don’t appreciate that you laughing. This was probably some of the worst pain ever. Most women would compare it to childbirth, but honestly, this is more recent and therefore more painful today. (This will not be true tomorrow.) Y’all, I could see my brain, and my brain was sad. It didn’t understand why I put my nervous system through this. I was in too much pain to explain to my brain. (I had to, HAD TO, type that sentence.)

This. In my nose.

I drank water. Nope. I blew my nose. The worst idea known to man, apparently. I prayed to die. Unanswered. I silent screamed. Made me feel a little better, but my nose was still suffering nuclear fallout. Tears were streaming down my face, something I usually reserve for everything during PMS. I didn’t know what to do I and I could see to Google it. Then it hit me.

Milk.

“MILK?!?!” You question me before you stop reading forever.

Yes, milk. I remembered that I read somewhere that milk stops the hots from like wings and such. Oh, I can see (not really) from your expressions of horror that you have already deduced what I did next.

Yes, yes, y’all, I put milk up my nose.

It was just as horrible as you think. I thought maybe, maybe I should have just died a wasabi-related death. But then- aaaahhhh. I could breathe without trying–and failing–to black out. So gross, but I lived. I LIVED.

And that is my comeback to all three of you, ladies and gentlemen. Also, this had been a public service announcement about snorting wasabi. YOU’RE WELCOME, AMERICA.

So, you know how I was talking about excuses a while back? Okay, well, I was talking about excuses a while back, try to keep up. No? How dare you. Well, I’m going to keep typing anyway. Take that.

I have said that the ultimate excuse was I don’t feel like it. And I was right it is. But I remember that there is a phrase that is even fresher than I don’t feel like it. Here it is:

“Screw you guys, I’m going home.” –Eric Cartman

Here’s the deal with that. At some point in all of our lives, every last one of us has wanted to go home. Too bad for us, only in childhood has actually saying so been acceptable. Only as a kid do you get to be so fed up that you can get up, get your crap (ball, jacks, jumprope, rocks, sticks, Idunno, depends on the tax bracket in your childhood home) and, when stuff wasn’t going down that you didn’t like, you were like, “I’m going home.” And you bounced.

At what age did this cease to be okay? At what age do we stop feeling like it’s okay to get out of a situation we don’t like and decide to go home? No seriously, I’m asking.

For me, never. I will ALWAYS get my ball and go home. ALWAYS.

Because.

Home is the one place where I know without a shadow of a doubt that the rules won’t change up on me. I might not LIKE the rules, but they won’t change up on me. Even going into the teenage years, I know who my kids are and while I might have to tweak things, I know who and what those things are.

And then there’s the “screw you guys” part. I don’t cuss. So that’s about as hard of language as you’re going to get out of me. But it says everything I want to say. Like, “I’m not about to entertain anymore of your foolishness at all whatsoever. Therefore, associates, I’m going home.”

It helps that, despite my numerous complaints about my family on this blog, I like being at home. With those same people that I live with. Some of whom I gave birth to. I like them, kinda. I really do. It’s the one place where I can be completely awful and everyone has to deal. YES, THEY WILL DEAL. Also, I am awful more often than not. If someone asks me what I’ve been up to, I say, “Oh, just hanging around being awful.” For some reason people find that funny. (I am not being funny. I was actively being awful until I was so rudely interrupted.)

Look, I just think that more of us should feel comfortable saying that we are sick of the B.S. and we are going to home. To people that love us. Despite our B.S.

Also, this is for those that don’t think the police don’t be on some B.S. sometimes. Thought I’d reiterate.

Hey you guys! Forgive the incoherence of this entry. But, you guys, you guys, this should be fun. I have consumed enough champagne for this to be fun. Why? I’ll tell you why–and I’m pretty sure this will be a bad idea in the a.m.–because I am going to live blog He-Man.

The Big Man and I have decided to binge watch He-Man on this last night of 2015. It just seemed appropriate.

I feel like Beastman drinks a lot of PBR. Like, a LOT.

Does the Sorceress channel Jennifer Tilly? Or is it the other way around?

Ram-man. Tee-hee. Sorry, I will never be mature enough to handle that.

Why does this bird-lady have such big breasts? And not the delicious fried kind.

All the villains on this show speak in the third person at some point. CREEEPY. Vida doesn’t like it.

Panthor is better than Battlecat. There. I said it. We shall not speak of Cringer. I hate that cat’s guts. I KNOW it’s the same cat. Shut up.

YEEEAAHHH!!

He-man’s…vest, question mark?

Does that big-bo0bed bird have a navel? Do birds have navels? (I actually googled this. They do not.)

No one sells He-man’s fur speedo-moccasin combo. Just that I’d menion that in case someone wants to get on it.

The Big Man just mentioned Quaaludes. I’m….I’m not going down that road.

Ram-Man…hee-hee, again.

I might be Evil-Lyn. Which is good, since I’ve mentioned dating Skeletor.

I don’t care for Man-at-Arms. There, I said it.

I know Prince Adam is grown, but I feel like someone should have called CPS on Prince Adam’s parents a long time ago. Like, they can’t even recognize their own kid in a metal vest and moccasins. Quaaludes?

He-Man’s tan. Orange is the new Eternia, amirite?

I just interrupted typing this to make sure my husband didn’t put Russell Brand on the TeeVee. NO RUSSELL BRAND. I don’t find him offensive, just unfunny. (The Destroyer just asked, “Dad, what’s Russell Brand? To which the Big Man replied, “Nothing you want to deal with.”)

I feel like Tila eats a lot of corn. Without butter and salt. And not in popped form. Who does that?

I’m going to get a fur underwear-moccasin boot-combo IF IT KILLS ME.

And on that note, good night everybody and see you in 2016! Which for me is in like, 3 hours of a champagne induced haze. (Champagne so bad it’s actually Cham-pag-in. Thanks, Zap Branningan.)

I usually engage in pleasantries and such at the beginning of my entries. Not today, y’all. Not today.

Apparently, according to the Destroyer, everyone in his grade except him is dating and our policy has made him a pariah. (Not true, unlike his mother, the Destroyer is popular.) I think I’ve touched on the whole middle school dating thing in the past, but I’m much too lazy to go back and look it up, much less link it here. However, the Big Man and I have decided that no one here dates until they are sixteen. Why? I’m glad you asked Or didn’t. Whatever, this is MY blog. Note: this focuses on the Destroyer because that’s who I just argued with. I’m sure when I fight with Wondergirl about this it will be entertainment at its finest. And you’ll get to read all about it.

1.) Responsible dating requires good decision making. Something the Destroyer has a hard time with. This is a boy who borrowed $190 Beats headphones from a friend and promptly got them stolen because he left them in his open backpack. Like, immediately. He just now requested that we buy him a steel door for his room. Because we live on the Starship Enterprise.

2.) It also requires trying to keep a 14-year-old girl happy. Never, ever, in the history of humanity, has there existed a perpetually happy 14-year-old girl. Never. (We never think about it, but you know that at one point Michelle Obama threw herself on her bed and cried because she was the only one who could go to a Marvin Gaye concert. YOU KNOW SHE DID.) Listen, I was a fourteen year old girl. Which means I was the star of my own tragic soap opera. As are most 14-year-old girls. I absolutely do not want my son to feel responsible for that. (Also, for future reference, I do not want Wondergirl to inflict that on someone’s son. Although, to be fair, in her case it absolutely would involve bail.)

So, I know I use Storm a lot, but sometimes she has like, zero chill.

3.) This may sound a bit callous, but raising kids is an investment. I mean, food, gas, sports equipment, and–most of all–time. If I’m putting all that into my son, I expect to see a return on my investment. I don’t need some girl turning his head, distracting him, and possibly ruining that. And, I’m about to be real you guys, if some girl does, she’s going to have to pay me back. Oh, y’all think I’m playing? I’m dead serious. I will have my hand out and she will have to run me my coins. To the tune of $75, 000. (Figures are approximate. But I remain dead serious.) That’s a lot of overtime at Chick-Fil-A or wherever the kids are working these days.

I don’t know. I know that a lot of parents feel confident in letting their kids make the choice to date in middle school. I’m probably taking the easy way out. Which is what I do. See the above statement about laziness.

So the pie thing shockingly well. I didn’t burn the house down, and the pie was not only edible, it was good. Take that, um…cooking, I guess? Anyway, other than that, I haven’t really been up to much. Unlike everyone else I know.

I mean, so many of the people around me have been running around like chickens with their heads cut off. (I have never seen that phrase in print before, it’s kind of gross, huh?) I’ve avoided the pressure because of one thing: I’m really good at making excuses. Like, really good. So good, in fact, that I’m going to share my list with you.

“I had Taco Bell today.” This is a good one, because no one will question you after that, for a couple of reasons: 1) They absolutely DO NOT want to hear what happened after that, and 2) every person in America and probably Germany has a Taco Bell story. (My husband has a Taco Bell legend.) They already know what’s up. However, you can only use this one once every few weeks, otherwise people will think you’re either a masochist or just plain stupid

“Not unless you want to help me move.” It’s surprising how well this one works, considering people don’t generally move that often. It’s one of those things that people don’t even want to risk walking into. I personally used this one three weekends in a row a while back, and it worked every. Single. Time. Even though I haven’t moved in eight years.

“I don’t have a babysitter.” This one has a limited life span, since once your oldest hits the teen years it becomes assumed that you have a built in baby-sitter. I have the great fortune of having the Destroyer as my oldest, and everyone know that ain’t nobody trying to leave him in a house alone with, well, furniture and dishes and windows and such. However, if your kids fall in the 1-7 age range, you’re golden. Especially if you have more than two. It also helps if you happen to have the spawn of the Devil himself. Or if your daughter may be a sociopath.

Seriously, no one wanted to baby sit. Ever.

“I’m broke.” Cause nobody wants to pay for you. Or maybe it’s just me-no one wants to pay for me. Not even for the sheer pleasure of my presence. Just kidding, I have like, three friends, and one of them is married to me and he has no choice but to pay. I also have no job.

“I don’t feel like it.” Okay, so be careful with this one. It’s a classic, but keep this in mind: This one is for the professional lazybones ONLY. You have to be soooo lazy that you’re not even up to inventing a legitimate excuse. Or, in my case, so lazy that you probably have a real reason for your inability to do something and you’re not even up to sharing THAT. Also, the “I don’t feel like it” requires real conviction–you must not be talked into feeling like it. It doesn’t matter what “it” is, you have already professed your feelings or lack thereof and THAT IS THE END. FINITO. The “I don’t feel like it” must be resistant to tears, begging, anger, and bribery. That’s right, you don’t even feel like taking something you want to do something you don’t. THAT, my friends, is excusery (not a word? It is now) at it’s finest.

There you go. You are very welcome, because I have saved you from drudgery and irritation. Did I miss any?

Hey, you guys! I’m sitting procrastinating because I’m supposed to go bake a pie and I have NEVER baked a pie. The only reason I’m doing this is because my husband happened to mention that he had never had sweet potato pie. My initial reaction was, “Of course not. You’ve always had pecan because you’re melanin deficient. ” Ignorant, I know. But since I live where I live, most of the white families I’ve met do pecan, most of the Black families, sweet potato. Tomato, tomahto.

But then two things happened. One, I realized that, blonde though my hubby may be, he’s been married to a Black woman with a Black family for almost twelve years. Two, my son also said he never had tasted said pie. Conclusion: I am a failure.

So I wildly overreacted which ended with a declaration that I’m going to make this pie. I’m sure hilarity will ensue that I will be compelled to tell ya’ll about later.

Anyhoo, I don’t know why I decided to spill those particular beans. I meant to tell you about how Kid Sensation cheated death. And, no not at the hands of Wondergirl. No. This time he took on the Big Man.

So we’ve all been cooped up here for the last few couple days together. Kid Sensation has been in front of a screen for the entire time. Like, only stopping for meals and potty breaks. Which would be fine if he was in college or building an online empire. However, he’s just looking up cartoon theme songs and offbeat British animation. (I don’t know.)

I know, I know–we’re terrible parents. I’m not gonna front though. It beats listening to him and Wondergirl fighting non-freaking-stop. I mean, it’s like living with Captain America and, well, Wondergirl. The other night, I didn’t hear anything for like, ten minutes and I was all, “Finally.” But then I realized that it was ten p.m. and they had just fallen asleep. Mid-fight.

All day, every day.

Yesterday, the Big Man figured that ol’ K.S. needed to get some fresh air. We live in the Pacific Northwest and it’s not raining. AKA: Get your butt outside.

Kid Sensation ignores the first missive, choosing the dangerous path of ignoring his dad. But this, you guys, this is not where things went left.

The Big Man repeats himself. He hates repeating himself even more than I do. Still, not in quite in Fatality country–just cruising the border. Not until Kid Sensation says, and I quote: “Okay, Okay. Be calm.”

I know you know what I’m talking about here. When you have repeatedly issued an order to your child and they want to act like you’re crazy and that your craziness isn’t their fault, it’s maddening. No, maddening isn’t right. It’s infuriating.

The Big Man turns beet-red. I know this description is overused, but he really was the exact shade of supermarket beets. All I heard was, “GET IN HERE! NOW!” It was so loud that at first I thought the Apocalypse had begun and I was going to be called into account for my bogus pie claims.

I immediately remove myself from the room. I am not trying to give eyewitness testimony. I remove myself from the room, and immediately begin fabricating plausible reasons for Kid Sensation’s disappearance. “Okay, we’re poor, so boarding school is out. Living with Grandma? No, she lives half a mile from here. Think, Vida, think!”

Next thing I know, I’m witnessing the single most tearful shoe putting on ever. He even managed to have one lonely tear stop mid-cheek on both sides of his face. It was so, so, pitiful, you guys. But he brought it on himself.

I still don’t know which particular boom was lowered that day. I’m a coward, so I’m afraid to ask. I’m just glad Kid Sensation is alive and well. And fighting with Wondergirl as we speak.

Hey, you guys! I missed you, did you miss me? Awww, stop it, you’re making me blush. Oh, I thought you were talking to me. Well, I will just have to pretend.

Football season is done vampiring our lives. (If vampiring isn’t a word, it should be.)Now we release the Kraken: wrestling season. I don’t know how Mama Prime does it with two of them. Maybe she’s sedated and if so, she really should share. Hints, Mama Prime. Hints.

Speaking of the Primes, a while ago, Omega happened to mention that he gave a kid a ticket for jaywalking while he was doing safety patrol. We all thought that was a cute way for the school to teach kids how to safely cross the street. Papa Prime then asks Omega, “So, what, they give you guys little papers or something to give out?”

Omega says, “Nope. I made them myself.”

Just to be clear: This ten-year-old kid made a bunch of tickets at home to give out while he has on a yellow vest and holding an orange flag to enforce Safety Patrol Justice. And the offending jaywalker was in kindergarten. Omega is out here putting the fear in these kids. It’s about to get real in these streets crosswalks. I told Mama Prime he’s going to be the Chief of Police. Which is good for when he marries Wondergirl. He can help her with any problems that arise. And by “problems” I mean “remains of her enemies and people who happened to offend her”.

They’re gonna be like this. Except Storm is a villain and her hair is mad curly. Also, the Big Man wouldn’t let her wear this.

Oh, and we got a German Shepherd puppy. I guess the fam felt like I needed someone to talk to during the day. And clean up after. And boss around. Correction–someone else to clean up after and boss around. Cause that’s my idea of a good time. Anyway, his name is Jack and so far he’s been the easiest member of my family to housebreak. He’s sleeping next to me right now due to his exhaustion from fighting with a pot. It was pretty intense.

Anyway, I just wanted to chat for a sec. Now, I’ve got to take the dog out.

So um, I was thinking about posting guys who are actually dateable, as opposed to the people I deem undateable. However, undateable is much, MUCH more fun. Also, I am aware that two out of three of my kids will be undateable. I’m trying not to tell Mama Prime because I really want Wondergirl and Omega to make us rich get together. (BTW, Wondergirl fully expects to start her own salon and be able to hire her own janitors immediately. She was looking at me pointedly when she said this. I guess it depends on how much she pays. It better be in organs when I’m old and decrepit cause I figure I can use her organs more than she can. Evil people don’t actually use their hearts, since their blood is actually ice and oil and just slides through their veins.)

Prince Harry: I don’t know, but it seems like he would try to embarrass you at all the palace functions. Like, he would know you didn’t know anything about the cheese course, but would sit there while you asked for cheddar like an idiot. Knowing that all they had was Camembert and Brie. And then laugh and point with his grandma.

Darkseid: You would forever have in inferiority complex with this guy. And he’s clearly self-absorbed. Because he is constantly talking about how he is the one to bring order to the universe and how he should rule the universe. He would never, ever ask about your day. And he would insist on regaling you with his universe-domination schemes. Even though Superman shuts him down each and every time. He’s like that guy at work who swears he knows how he would change procedure, but management rips up his suggestion emails after printing them out for the sole purpose of passing them around and laughing uproariously at them. It’s like, “Listen, homebiscuit, all I want to know is if you liked Wu-Tang in high school. We can talk about universal domination after the third date.”

Also, I’m not trying to be racist here, but being death gray is kind of a turn-off.

Jeff Goldblum: Not that I think he’s a bad dude. It just seems like if he opened his eyes at night it would be like the cartoons where you can see the whites and pupils in the dark. Freee-kee.

Mariah Carey: Listen, she’s beautiful and ultra-talented. But all of her clothes are too tight. ALL of them. She is definitely Spanxed to death. Do you know how I treat people after I have had Spanx on for too long? Like Portlanders treat everyone else: condescending and cranky. And I only wear them on special occasions. Pretty sure that’s how Mariah is all the time. Plus, Nick Cannon is her ex. So there’s that.

Carmen Electra: Cause she used to be the business. Have you ever dated anyone who used to be the business? They. Are. The. Worst. They always want to remind you of those days when they were the business–and you barely cared then. Now they’re just boring.

He you guys! So I was not feeling well this week. You know, cause I sent the kids back to that petri dish they call school. Also I have been writing for other folks, and again I am too shy to share. I just straight up told Mama Prime I would direct her to my work and when I got home I cried because I don’t want her to know how awful my work really is. Yes, I said shy. Why are you surprised? Oh, because I am a butthead loudmouth on here? Yeah, well.

Anywhoo. Pop question: When everyone in the house is sick, who do you tend to first? A) Your oldest, B) the middle child who never gets enough attention, or C) the baby because he’s the baby? Haha, trick question—the answer is D) the Big Man. Because he is pathetic. Or pitiful. I can’t decide. Pathetiful? Yes. YES. No one copyright this until I feel like it.

Now. To my random thoughts.

I told the Destroyer that if he goes to a school dance, and a girl he’s dancing with dances anything like I do, he should call me immediately and get away from her as fast as he can. If a girl can booty roll and shake the way I could (and, *ahem* still can) I don’t want him anywhere NEAR her. #parentalhypocrisy

I finally gave away my hope jeans. You know those jeans you hold onto hoping you’ll lose weight back into them? Yeah, well I lost hope. Also, they are now out of style. I wish you well in your Goodwill endeavors, hope jeans.

The Destroyer, my son, who came from my own body, didn’t know how to spell Vegeta. Or Super Saiyan. I have failed him spectacularly. Don’t call CPS.

Yeah, Vegeta. That’s how I felt, too.

Remember how I said Skeletor was undateable? Well, I follow him on Twitter and he seems cool. Danzing is still undateable, though.

My grandma’s in town! This is awesome because she’s awesome.

I live in Vancouver, Washington. I thought it was cloudy today, but I think I’m wrong. I think it may be the haze of smug coming across the river from Portland. Yes, smug.

I was late taking Kid Sensation to school the other day. He was up in his room playing so quietly I forgot he was there. You guys, he was being so nice and quiet that I was validated as a parent. I mean, if I can forget you exist, you’re a pretty good kid, right? Please don’t call CPS.

I want to have a cooking show. But I can’t because I wouldn’t know how to cook without being interrupted. Or having to break up a fight. Or getting into a fight. Or putting out a small fire.

On second thought, my cooking show might be pretty good. Will you guys watch it?

Again, I admit I’m a terrible person. It’s kind of my running theme. And I’m passing it on to the next generation. Thank me later.

So I was talking to The Destroyer about a girl he likes. Liked. Here’s the deal: I try to instill in my children that looks aren’t everything. I try to tell them that what makes a person special is on the inside. Stay with me here.

This is how the conversation went:

“Hey, whatever happened to ____?” (At this stage, I’m not trying to remember their names.)

He shrugs. “She’s not my type.”

“What does that mean?”

Another shrug. So, I think, she’s tore up.

“Destroyer, everything can’t be looks. I mean, is she smart? Funny? Interesting?”

“She’s smart. I just don’t like her, mom. Leave it alone.” I wasn’t about to leave it alone. Me? Nerd extraordinaire? Raise a shallow kid? Not gonna happen. If he can’t see inner beauty, then he’s the same as all those shallow jerks that I went to school with. You know, the ones who couldn’t see my inner beauty.

“Listen, there’s a such thing as inner beauty. I mean—wait. Is that her?”

Don’t get mad, you guys. I really do want my son to be with a woman of substance. I just don’t want her to be tore-up ugly. And I don’t mean like a big nose or overweight or a limp. I mean looking like a Garbage Pail Kid.

Sweartogod, this is HannahMckaylaBrittneyEricaAleshaRenee

And I know there are parents out there who wouldn’t want their son- or daughter-in-law to be fat like me. I’ve decided not to be mad about that. (Especially since I know that my mother-in-law wanted her son to marry a pretty, petite, blonde. Which is the polar opposite of me and I decided not to be mad about that. Especially since I make the Big Man very happy. Also, I’m sexy-fat. So there’s that.)

The thing is, men get to be shallow about ALL KINDS OF THINGS. Like if a woman has hammer toes. So, I feel like I get to be shallow about some things. And this is one of them. I get to think that my smart, beautiful son is out of a particular girl’s league.

I happened to marry an attractive man. And I know that they’re my kids, but my kids are pretty darn good looking. And I would like to have good looking grandchildren.

I don’t worry about this too much with Wondergirl. She already has criteria in place for the man she wants to meet in 2026. (That’s the year she has projected, not me.) She actually said, “He has to be reasonably handsome. Not way fine, cause I’m not trying to fight over him. ” (This is a lie. She wants any excuse to fight.) “And rich,” she added. “He has to be rich.” Of course he does. How else would she fund her world-dictatorship campaign? (Omega Prime, I’m looking at you, kid.)

Look, I guess it boils down to this: If a dad can tell his son to date hot chicks, so can a mom. Also, I hope that she’s kinda dumb. That way, I can trick her into telling the truth about what her and my son have been up to.

Oh, and then, THEN, another girl had the nerve to tell the Destroyer that she didn’t want to talk to him because some kids said that his mother is crazy. WHAT?!? Only SOME kids think I’m crazy? Well, I must be losing my touch.